


vīgintī

by Rigil_Kentauris



Category: Alpha Protocol
Genre: Character Study, Espionage, Gen, M/M, i dont think theres an anti ampersand relationship tag so, im so sorry tag wranglers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: You’re a man without a country, Thorton. You’re me, twenty years ago.





	vīgintī

**Author's Note:**

> look albatross spends a fuckton of time and money trying to keep michael out of trouble and from Whomever he thinks that trouble is going to turn michael into is all im saying

_You’re me, twenty years ago!_

The man sitting across the table has dark, dark eyes that spark grey in the low light. _We can change things,_ he swears.

The paper sits impossibly small between you and he.

_I…_ you say.

He reaches out and grabs your hand, falling halfway across the table in the attempt.

_Come on,_ he says. _We’re better than this._

_Alright,_ you agree, after a moment of swallowing down heavy fears.

 

_You’re me, twenty years ago:_

The gunshot bolts through him with no effort. He chokes on a wet sound and collapses in your arms.

_Go,_ he says, and he slips your Beretta out of your belt.

Ever the light in his eyes.

_I…_ you say.

_The mission,_ he says, through spattered coughs.

_Alright,_ you agree, and you run from the faint and fading sounds of combat.

 

_You’re me, twenty years ago._

It’s not hard to find places where lights are low and names aren’t asked. Questions, though, questions come aplenty, especially with what you’re drinking.

And who you’re sitting with.

He takes the paper and folds it crisp down the middle.

_They’ll come for you,_ he says, impassively.

You don’t say anything.

He stands and extends a hand across the table.

_Come with me instead,_ he says. _We could use someone like you._

And when you say nothing, he adds, _I know who did it._

 

_You’re me. Twenty years ago._

Covered in the smell of blood and the dead of those who’ve wronged you.

It doesn’t bring anyone back.

You’ll find it rarely does.

 

_You’re me, twenty years ago…_

…as the missions start seeming less and less like justice and more and more like _fair._

…as the place names and boundaries stop mattering, because every place is the same, underneath the weight of buildings. Because every person is the same, when you break them down to their essentials.

…as friends and enemies become pointless distinctions. There are only allies and problems. Hands across the table and the people attached to them.

…and you’re me, years ago, halting ~~~~in a hallway as your target freezes, too.

_Conrad?_ he says in disbelief, pulling off blue goggles.

Ever the light in his eyes underneath.

_I…_ you say, with your mouth dry.

But there are things that sit impossibly small between you, it seems.

And his eyes harden after the brief split-second of recognition.

And the gun you find yourself facing is a Beretta you though you’d lost as well.

He says nothing when he shoots you dead, as if it had never mattered in the first place. And when you wake up, it's to searing pain in your chest and the weight of a bloody revolver resting on you.

Michael, killing someone hardly ever brings someone else back.

You’ll find that kind of stupidity rarely works.


End file.
